


Wrong

by DunkMeToHell



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Vomiting, [not really but still if you're sensitive to that], blood warning, i mostly just got in the mood after tonight's events as it were, i've been writing in shorter bursts lately but i don't know if this will be common, like an extended monologue, pretty much pure angst tbh, should be a specific tag for that but uhhh im on mobile right now and it’s 2 AM, this isn't even really a fic as much as it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-07-25 01:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16187147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DunkMeToHell/pseuds/DunkMeToHell
Summary: Jack regrets his own actions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You ever just feel so upset by a turn of events that you're compelled to instantly write a long ramble that basically has no plot on the subject and then upload it with virtually no editing?
> 
> No reason.

He tried, desperately tried. Tried to arch himself in such a way that the skimming of Drew’s hands across his back felt normal and real. But it failed, feeling as inauthentic and simply off as the smirk, crooked and suddenly inhuman as he compliments Jack on a job well done.

No mercy, remember. No mercy.

He’s aching within, a raging acid pit that’s already threatened to boil over several times this evening. That’s why he’s ducked up over the toilet now, gasping deep breaths and hoping that something will finally come out, wash out and burn his insides until they’re red and clean. With any luck he might die.

But you hated him, Jack remembers. You hated Brian. Your whole partnership was hate. Hatred bundled together in a leather pouch and carried about like a prize. That was the point. The bitterness between the two of them was more than enough for everyone.

There was nothing between them, then, he had insisted. No matter how their arms slung around each others’ waists.

But now there is something between the two of them—mainly distance. Several miles, even. Brian could not even bear to look at them once that night, couldn’t stand to be on the property. He spat at Drew and Jack’s shoes and got in the car, driving off to some other hotel.

“Good riddance.”

Drew’s voice was a purr—when Jack is concerned, it always has been. If there has ever been anything between him and Brian, Jack is sure it was Drew. Promises of power and respect flowered from his lips like blossoms that would beget endless fruit.

Jack tries to make himself retch into the bowl, but all that remains in his throat is a solid and cold lump, choking him but not letting him gag.

The fall has come. There is a bounty out before Jack, sown at his feet and binding around his ankles. He doesn’t want to partake in the riches. He just wants to vomit and go to sleep.

The shapes of hands linger on his spine in conflicting shadows, two memories at once. One set was Brian’s. That history was mountainous—little pats on the back, the occasional, daring rub. Even more daring, little crescent mark shapes, red imprints of his nails when the two of them were busy having nothing between them.

“Oh, why don’t you admit it?” Drew’s tone was lilting, a mocking song the other night. “You two have been fucking, haven’t you?”

He’d cornered Jack backstage, alone. The look in his eyes mimicked how Brian’s could so often be: selfish, brimming with something seamy, a scheme below the water. But something about it was different. Jack couldn’t tell what it was, still couldn’t; all he knew was that it had magnetized him to Drew in that moment, and now, repulsed him in hindsight.

Now, here, just a sensation like constant nausea, always on the very cusp of emptying himself out. Drew was seductive, alright—he had to be a master to convince Jack that this was what he wanted. Led him here, to five in the morning in a hotel he couldn’t even remember the name of, to the edge of a toilet seat, head buzzing with a deep ache from the white lights overhead.

Of course, the other set of hands that have left a ghost on Jack’s back are Drew’s. Pale, shallow imitations of the gentle paths carved out by Brian—why shouldn’t Drew treat him that way? The title may have been what he was after, but Jack was still a prize himself. He walked into Drew’s room like a slave, laid on the bed and convinced himself it would feel like liberation, like strength itself to join with his new “one”.

Instead, he was left lying on the sheets, feeling something less than dissatisfaction—something lesser than himself. He could laugh bitterly if he weren’t trying to let his self-appointed master sleep.

The only pale imitation here is himself, scrap pieces of his junked self that he’d suddenly opted to throw away at a moment’s notice—then recreated into something shaped like himself, but not quite measuring up. When he gazes in the mirror he sees a poor emulation, begging for the hand of an artist.

Well, Jack’s felt Drew’s hands. At once soft and delicate, but rough and discomforting. There was an art to his touch, like his voice, his power—but he simply wasn’t an artist. He couldn’t build Jack into what he was an instant ago, something Jack knows could be read in his eyes the moment he turned to face Drew in the ring that night. And it was confirmed especially by his touch.

Drew’s hands were the wrong hands, his eyes were the wrong eyes, his voice the wrong voice.

_“You’ve been fucking, haven’t you?”_

The wrong body curled up next to his in bed.

Jack turns his head to face the cold linoleum tub, built cropping out of the floor, and wonders if he can get away with sleeping in it for the rest of the night, but banishes the thought. He’s expected back, after all.

The lure of power, a soft voice, the simple need to _be_ needed. Hadn’t he had these already? The sound of Brian’s voice returns to his ears. _“Jackie boy, Jackie boy....”_

Jack’s lips tremble as he gapes, pressing his head into the basin, but nothing comes out. He’s strangled within his own body, emotions he’s never been able to express. A proper gentleman never does so. A proper gentleman sits on his mound of desperation, wanting, love, misery; sees them all melted down into one hideous mass and swallows them. Jack feels like it’s hardened inside of him, considering he feels so heavy inside, full of lead and poison.

He yawns, resting his head. The exhaustion alone weighs forty pounds. But he can’t sleep, of course. He’s been trying for so long with no success. And now, in exhaustion, memory sets in, the aftershock of his own betrayals. It’s mixed media, a portrait of his, Drew’s, Brian’s creation. The face is Brian’s pain, his horror when he realizes that he’s been cast aside. The voices are mingling between Brian and Drew, each caressing him with praises, one a whisper in a bedroom, the other a calculated purr to crawl inside Jack’s mind—

Christ! Jack nearly cries out, pulls his hair and bashes his head on the wall. Of course he knew what Drew was doing to him, when he settled in between them so quickly like a sharp, driven nail. Jack should have been proud of what a good fucking puppet he made. He hangs desolately from the strings.

The shadow of Brian’s palms remain, their comfort a mockery as Jack finally lets out one shaking sigh out of his core, evaporating with residue. He’s stunned to feel the faint edge of a tear trickling down his cheek, that he could summon up enough from his own soul to even let that out. A gentleman’s strategically cold heart is usually never so yielding, but Jack’s heart is aching like fire, and he wishes he could will that ghost of Brian’s fingers up to his cheek to wipe the embarrassing tear away.

“Jack?”

Jack sits suddenly upright, flushed with pink shame. The low, sleepy purr of Drew Gulak strikes him like he’s been shot, and it stings even more when he sees him standing expectantly. The master is awake.

“I...” Jack exhales, trying to keep his composure. “I felt ill, after supper, I’m afraid.”

Drew tilts his head in a way that feels predatory, somehow, eyes narrowed. “Oh? Is that why you’re crying?”

Jack reaches up, pretends to touch his cheek in confusion, then look at his fingertips in consternation. “Don’t know what that is,” he shrugs.

Drew’s expression barely changes, but he merely turns around to the darkened room behind the two of them. “Alright. Presume you’ll be back in bed?”

Jack’s laugh is unmistakably false, like drywall crackling. “Of course, sir.”

“Good...” Drew’s grin is, somehow, equally reminiscent of plaster. “You’ll be needing the rest, won’t you, Jackie boy?”

Jack’s temperature falls through the floor. He’s stark and cold, the retching urge crawling back up across his tongue. “P...pardon?”

“Won’t you be needing the rest?”

Drew’s eyes feign such innocence that Jack could kill him. Luckily, Jack has already learned how to fake the grin.

“Yes, you’re right. Lead the way.” Jack follows Drew up and back into the bedroom.

Even lying next to Drew, all night Jack feels his shoulders caressed, his aching body pulled into the shadow of Brian’s hands and arms. The affection feels like a sick mockery, conjured by Brian from—God, wherever he’s gone. But the whispers pooling in his ears, drops of memories...

_“Jackie boy, my gentleman, my little Jackie boy...”_

Jack faintly closes his eyes, and tries to pretend that these words are coming from Drew, that the shape of hands on him are his and his alone, that he’s sleeping next to the right man in bed—that anything, anything is right at all.

God, he feels sick.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another “shat right out at 2 AM” thing; however, I didn’t want to have two virtually plotless Kenjack ficlets posted back-to-back. Since this functions as a sort of loose continuation anyway, I’ve added it as a second chapter. Maybe could be more; maybe not.

“We have to talk.”

The voice is sudden and unexpected, meeting Jack as he turns the corner, words striking him before he even has time to recognize the face.

Of course, his face is far too familiar by now—but something is different. Brian’s blue green eyes are sizzling with something Jack has never seen before in his life. He thinks, for a fleeting second—hopes it to be hatred.

Jack gasps and exhales, then does his best to rearrange his face in disdain.

“The hell are you doing in here?” He flatly asks. Brian pretends to raise his eyebrows innocently; turns his head and looks about Jack’s bedroom innocently, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket that still smells of gin.

“What, here?” Brian shrugs. “The door was open.”

Jack walks away to the curtains, acting that he’s drawing them shut. The important thing is that he’s looking away. “You are not welcome here, Mr. Kendrick,” he says coldly.

“Don’t give a shit.” Brian is equally unyielding. Jack’s knuckles twitch, threatening to knot up and tear the drapes. He forces his hands to relax, squeezing his eyes shut.

“If you stay, I will hurt you,” Jack states clinically—then, chuckles softly. “And haven’t you had enough of that for one night?”

Brian barely huffs, mind briefly lingering on the long purple bruises running up the back of his legs. Standing up drives hot needles into them, another pinprick with every passing second.

“I don’t know, Jack...” Brian finally sighs, boldly settling down, seating himself on the edge of Jack’s bed—he tsks softly as he spots an undone corner. “Oh, poor Jackie boy. You’re losin’ your touch?”

Jack’s fist jerks at the curtain, and all at once his mind is gone. His body swivels around on autopilot, arm swinging out for a searing gut punch. But Brian, somehow, even miraculously, is faster. He dodges Jack’s fist and lets him trip over his own inertia, plummeting forward into the bed, face crashing into the headboard. Before Jack can even hiss in pain, Brian’s knee is driving into the center of his back, pinning him in place against the mattress. It’s when Brian tugs the ends of his hair, pulling his head back into an uncomfortable angle, that Jack finally sputters and coughs, trying to breathe around the blood pouring out of his nostrils, down his split lip.

“Losing your touch,” Brian repeats, sounding truly disgusted in a way that stirs up Jack’s memories until he forces it away. Jack tries to respond in kind, but only manages to cough and wheeze against the dripping blood. He’s reeling, a bit; he barely feels it when Brian forcibly flips him over, and only barely senses the way Brian’s eyes scan him top to bottom. Brian sighs, and a moment passes that Jack is honestly frightened that Brian is about to pay him back for what he’d done on the show that evening before he suddenly feels the pressure lifting off of his body.

“Hunh...?” Jack can only manage a sound as he blearily watches Brian slowly lift away from him, turn and pace around in the corner. At last there’s another grunt as Brian reaches into the sleeve of his jacket, pulling out a rather clean handkerchief. He tosses it to Jack without even looking at him.

“Clean yourself up. This is pathetic.”

Jack’s lip curls odiously, but he isn’t in the position to deny. He swipes up the handkerchief and presses it to his nose, leaning forward. 

“You call me pathetic?” Jack asks (trying to ignore how comically pinched his voice now sounds). “You ought to see the bruises you got all over your body.”

Jack can see Brian’s shoulders lurch in suppressed rage. Something forces him to keep going. “Yes, look at yourself. You’re going to get killed out there one day, aren’t you? You’re too old. You’re through. Pathetic.”

There’s a pause as Jack waits excitedly for Brian to punch the wall and scream, perhaps even throw the nearby table lamp at him. He can’t help but feel deeply disappointed as Brian just shakes his head, turning slowly to face Jack again.

That look in his eyes is back, burning a bit brighter than before. Jack still can’t place what, exactly, it is.

“No. I came here to talk and I’m not leaving until that happens.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. He, for some reason, feels his pulse quicken.

“We have nothing to discuss,” he says, clutching the bedsheet like it’s a weapon. “If you don’t leave I will...”

Jack pauses, gazing into Brian’s eyes—wide and waiting for his move. Jack feels himself overtaken with the desire to punch Brian right where it hurts.

“I will be telling Gulak about this.”

The expression that crosses Brian’s face is not rage or vengeance like Jack had hoped for. It’s a faint, muted twinge of pain, one that barely flickers in his eyes before Brian rebuilds himself.

“What, your master needs to bail you out?” Brian asks with a roll of his eyes, strolling to the edge of the bed. Jack feels himself being pinned down again. “Since when were you such a lapdog, hm?”

Jack stiffens up, a fire of umbrage welling in him. “Oh, how typical of you, Kendrick...” he hisses, meeting his eyes with a sharp glare. “For the ‘man with the plan’ you sure don’t quite seem to see the light.”

Brian, rather unexpectedly, tilts his head questioningly. He settles back into the bed next to Jack—close, too close. Jack tries to scoot away but he...can’t.

“Then tell me, Jack,” Brian asks in a voice that’s quite nearly genuine. “Tell me what the plan is, tell me where Drew is going to take you. To the top?” Brian pauses to chuckle. “He’s never been there. Not that that really matters; it’s not the belt he’s even after anymore. It’s me and you.”

Jack’s eyes widen, then narrow in succession. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Brian’s lips twist into a wry smirk. “God, since when were you this fucking stupid? He doesn’t give a shit about the belt, Jack; doesn’t give a shit about the division or anything else. It’s you and me. You were my partner, not his.”

Jack tries again to scoot away from Brian. He senses his skin faintly tingling. “Well, I’m not really your partner anymore, am I?” Jack winces, knowing his “confident” voice really came out soft and cracked. Brian just shakes his head and laughs cruelly.

“You’re not, Jackie. You’re not.”

A gust of breath leaves Jack as he feels his shoulder being jerked and shoved, face turned to Brian and back forced to the headboard in one swift motion. The fire in Brian’s eyes is crackling now, staring deeply through Jack, and he feels his skin starting to burn from it. “But you know? You aren’t Drew’s partner. You’re a bitch, his prize bitch. You don’t see it, do you? He’s just a bitter fucking man with nobody to love him, and he wants to do the same thing to us. He already got what he wanted, baby...” Brian laughs again; a chilling sound that echoes through Jack’s bones. “He got it. Right now you’re a pretty toy he wants to play with, but once he gets bored he’s gonna throw you out, because he wants you that way.”

The manic mirth suddenly melts off of Brian’s face, revealing a stony, empty expression. Jack hasn’t seen it since Brian was out on injury.

“Drew wants everyone miserable, just like him.” Brian turns his face away, staring at the wall. “He’s done it to me. And he’ll do it to you, next.”

Jack is speechless. He doesn’t want to be. He wants to leap up, drag Brian up with him, pin him to the wall and—and—he doesn’t know after that. All Jack knows is that he shouldn’t be in stunned silence.

After all, it isn’t as if Brian just told him anything he didn’t already know.

Silence grows in the room, a mold creeping in from corner to corner as Brian shrinks up, face withering deeper and deeper into misery. Even Jack’s black gentlemanly heart begins to ache. He’s just about to reach forward when Brian suddenly breathes in, lifting his head. An awkward laugh leaves his throat.

“It’s funny...” Brian says, looking down at his feet hanging over the edge of the bed. “You said I was sentimental, didn’t you?”

It takes a split second for Jack to register that Brian is now looking at him expectantly. His face flushes, and he slowly lowers the handkerchief from his nose—the bleeding has at least slowed to a dribble.

“That...might have been something of an excuse,” Jack confesses solemnly. Brian shakes his head.

“No, no,” he murmurs, so soft it’s almost to himself, “you’re right. I have to be sentimental if...if I’m still worried about you.”

Brian’s voice is simple and honest, and that’s enough to break Jack. He closes his eyes and lies on the bed, breath rising out of him as a suppressed whimper.

“You shouldn’t even care about me,” he whispers. Brian blows air out between his lips.

“Of course I shouldn’t, Jackie-boy. You think I wanna be here right now telling you this?”

“What do you need?” Jack asks, his voice crackling. His eyes are squeezed so tightly shut, waves of stars and colors pass behind them. “Please. It’s too late to change anything. Leave.”

Jack feels the bed shifting beneath him as Brian’s weight is added, crawling over to his side.

“Listen. It’s going to happen. I won’t like it at all, but Drew is gonna lay you out in front of everybody and beat you until you’re within an inch of your fucking life and there won’t be a damn thing I can do to help you.”

“Leave.” It takes all the restraint Jack has not to let his voice come out as a choked sob. His whole body aches, his skin is burning, and Brian is too close for him to not want to touch. “Leave. Leave.”

“My advice to you,” Brian’s voice rises sharply over Jack’s pleas, “is that you plan something else, get ahead of him before—“

“I CAN’T.”

Jack’s volume rises to such a level it leaves even himself stunned, shivering and gasping as Brian stares at him.

All at once, it’s gone. The thin veil of the composed gentleman has been torn away, and Jack is lying underneath, pathetic, trembling and whimpering as he shoves his face in a pillow, soaking it with tears and still-wet blood.

Brian waits, listening to the air in the room, his heartbeat rattle against his ribs. His sentimentality is working against him again as he leans slowly down to Jack, gently brushes a lock of his soft ginger behind his ear.

“Jack...” Brian whispers, his throat and lips dry, “whatever Drew ends up doing to you in the ring, I can’t do anything about. But if I ever find out that he’s doing anything to you outside of the arena...anything that has you this afraid of him...”

Brian pulls on Jack’s shoulder, and he turns limply over without resistance, face streaked with tears and blood. Brian gently wipes a tear from Jack’s eye.

“...it’s gonna be Drew who doesn’t get any mercy. Got it?”

Jack barely nods, weak and tired and empty in Brian’s arms, painfully comfortable and familiar right now.

The ensuing kiss that Brian pulls Jack up into stings equally, though Jack isn’t sure if that’s from the situation or the gash bleeding from his face. When Brian pulls away, his nose and lips are smeared with it, and Jack finds the image equally frightening and attractive. Just like Brian always has been...

A pathetic sound leaves Jack’s throat as Brian gets up and begins to zip up his jacket. “Don’t leave,” he says, voice tired and croaking. “Please.”

Brian flashes Jack a weary, regretful smile. “I have to go, Jack,” he whispers, gently pushing Jack’s bangs back into place. Jack bites his lip. The desperation in his face must be obvious, because Brian finally says, “but I will be back for you. Understand?”

Jack nods slowly, the closest thing to a smile he’s had in an eternity creeping into the corners of his lips. “Yes, Mr. Kendrick.”

That look. That look comes back into Brian’s eyes as he gazes at Jack, lingers on him a moment before quietly stepping out the door, shutting the door behind him. Jack exhales and lies on his side in the bed.

That’s it. That loving look, the gentle concern. That expression carries Jack down into sleep, settling him down into the closest thing to a restful night that he’s felt for almost 3 weeks...


End file.
